


Deep Red

by alwayssinning (scytherei)



Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M, Kidnapping, Yandere, as if that isnt par for the course, blood everywhere, chapters are short but many and i cant decide whether or not pinocchio has a dick, creepy puppet bullshit, dubiously consensual body modification, in which the akatsuki hideout is more domestic than youd expect but more chaotic than youd hope, its 2000 again and im writing reader insert fanfiction, this might get kinda gross later, vague terminal illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scytherei/pseuds/alwayssinning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"How does one become a puppet?"</i>
  <br/>
  <i>He's caught off guard by your question-- not because of what was asked, but because it's you that's asking. There's a long silence after that, enough to make you nervous.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>"Do you really want to know?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue; Deep Red

You are sick. Not in the sneezing, coughing, covered-in-bacterium sort of way, no, but something a little more chronic. A little poison in your blood that's been there since you were born, adding new problems with every birthday as if to solidify your mortality. You were never meant to make it this far, every medic you'd seen had told you, but eighteen winters in and you were still there, if just barely.

You never told anyone what was wrong with you, either. You never had to. Between kekkei-genkai and the sheer unpredictability of genetics these days, no one asks questions about your appearance. The closest comment you'd had was on your name-- Akane, 'deep red', given to you tongue-in-cheek by your father for the colour dyed into your skin, your nails, the whites of your eyes in brilliant patches, not quite bruises. For the colours you'd spray everywhere when your coughing fits hit. For the colour that'd stained the hospital room as your mother fared worse than you did with your birth. You function well for your issues, having become an expert at ignoring dizzy spells, dodging blackouts, keeping every inch of skin covered and armoured and safe from even the tiniest cut that could end your life prematurely. 

You've become an excellent ninja in your own right, controlled bloodletting techniques becoming famous in your home village and granting you notoriety elsewhere-- enough to land you in trouble, now, of course, but you'd been flattered at the time. No one ever believed you when you said, no, your jutsu weren't genetic, you didn't gain them from your clan (in fact, you've no connections to your relatives save for fleeting memories of your early life), you'd simply been given lemons and made lemonade. You, incidentally, were also not believed when said techniques led to a strange man (red hair, red clothes) knocking on your door, asking in a tone that reads more like a demand that you come with him.

(It seems red is to become a reoccurring theme in your life; his name is Akasuna no Sasori, you later learn.)

Weeks pass in his custody as he totes you from place to place (never the same place more than a day, but he'd assured you you have a destination), before finally arriving at what you assume is his 'hideout'. You quickly learn that this hideout is not, in fact, exclusively his, and you become slightly more perturbed by the fact that there is an assortment (a damn circus, you think) of other characters not unlike himself inhabiting it. You do not learn all of their names, only the ones he mentions, and you are told it isn't important. You believe it. You have been, after all, technically kidnapped (not that anyone will be looking for you), and these are, you assume, criminals. You assume you will only be here for so long before they realise that your techniques (you assume that's what they want, after all) aren't really communicable, and you are thusly rendered useless.

It comes as a surprise to you that this turns out to be an inaccuracy on your part, the first but certainly not the last in your long and growing list of wrong guesses over the course of your stay.


	2. The Enigma of Akasuna no Sasori

As it turns out, your guesses continue to be wrong, as you lose track of the days you've been missing and yet find yourself unmolested, for the most part. There has yet to be so much as an interview, let alone an interrogation. No demands, no requests, no threats, no ransoms. You'd be offended if you had more of an ego and intimidated if you were in any measure afraid of death. As it is, you've more or less accepted your fate, and become a bit of a casual fixture of sorts in what you've come to find out is the base of operations of the 'Akatsuki' (more red; goody-goody). You mind your business, you eat your breakfast, and you take your new and yet unexplained lifestyle in stride. They do not charge you rent, they do not ask you questions, and while you do occasionally become caught up in banter between the other members, for the most part everyone has taken your strange appearance and quiet demeanour as a large fuck-off sign. Either that, or his presence is the cause.

It wouldn't surprise you. Akasuna no Sasori is an enigma to you, actually, and were not for the circumstances of your meeting you could not say that he is someone you would approach on the street. You find his attitude to be standoffish at best, antisocial to be more blunt, and the strange puppet-like (actually, you're pretty sure it IS an actual puppet) suit that he totes around more often than not definitely does not add to his approachability. Developing a do-not-touch feel by proxy seems entirely possible, even though his friend ('partner', he bitterly claims; you've never commented, but you can't help but read their banter as friendly) does not appear to share this problem. You do not mind. However, this leaves you in his company astonishingly often, and you learn that his company, while not unpleasant per se, is certainly odd.

You learn that Sasori is, amoungst other things, a quiet man. He keeps to himself. He avoids conversation but is quick to argue. He is impatient, but hates fleeting things. As you spend more time around him (primarily seated quietly in his quarters, watching him do his work. He does not appear to mind your presence, so long as you do not make noise or touch things that aren't yours), you pick up on more subtle aspects. You find out that he is much older than his appearance suggests, that he hails from Sunagakure, and that he's been 'missing' for longer than anyone else here. You discover that, consequentially, he knows more about the organisation and about the world as a whole than most of the others do, than most people you've ever met do, and you also discover that (as knowledgeable folks are wont to do), he hates being out of the loop. It is through this frustration that you discover that the reason he has not asked a thing about you is because there isn't much relevant to your resume that he does not already know.

His knowledge is shown out of order-- he starts by providing you with the pills necessary to manage your ailment without being asked. You find clothing in your exact size to replace the garments you came in the first time you deign to shower, and discover glasses in your exact prescription sitting on a desk to replace the ones you'd neglected to bring. Miraculously, this manages to be the first thing you find unsettling about your stay. Every detail, every minute detail, and he seems to know, preemptively, without being told, and after a certain point you have to question why, because there is very much a difference between knowing about your condition and the medications needed to keep you alive and knowing your shoe size and what hand you write with. The one time you consider questioning him about it, he catches you off guard once again, ironically with the one bit of information you should have entirely expected him to know.

"Akane," he says, monotone but for the barest quirk to indicate that this is him asking for your attention.

Actually, it's the first time he's actually directly addressed you since you got here, which is probably part of why it's startled you so much. If he notices, he doesn't mention it. He does, however, appear to notice that he has your attention, as he continues speaking moments later.

"Aren't you going to try to leave?" he asks. It's at this point that you realise that, come to think of it, you've never so much as tried to go home. Not for any logical reason (though you could think of a few, if you tried-- perhaps you'd be killed, or the fact you don't know where you are, specifically). In fact, you literally weren't even sure if you COULD leave. You'd never so much as checked for locked doors. For a kidnapping victim, you'd been almost alarmingly complacent, and you aren't sure whether to be more worried by that, or the fact that you hadn't even noticed until he'd pointed it out.

Lost in your own personal monologue of sort, you shrug, halfhearted and noncommittal. It doesn't matter much, since you both know you aren't going anywhere. You aren't sure why he'd asked, even, and you don't receive any semblance of an explanation, either. He gives a low grunt and returns to his work, as if the conversation (if you could really qualify it as such) had never occurred.

This man is mysterious, you think, but you suppose he isn't the worst person you've ever shared a room with.


	3. No Strings Attached

As it turns out, you do eventually discover why it is you are here, and as it turns out, this ends up another wrong guess on your part, if only halfway. According to the scraps of information you've picked up-- some through overheard conversations, others secondhand from a lovely convention known as asking people who aren't Sasori (whose response to any question is typically a comment on the relevance of the answer)-- while your kidnapping was, in fact, related to your abilities, you are more of a failsafe than anything else. In fact, they don't even want you to join them. You have been told that if that were the case, you'd have found out much sooner than this, and been picked up by someone else.

The Akatsuki does not appear to have any interest in imitating your jutsu or picking apart its origins, so much as keeping said techniques out of anyone elses hands. The sheer fact that you are missing allows you to serve myriad purposes, from bluff to bargaining chip, and honestly the more interesting question is why they bothered to keep you rather than something more traditional, like dumping you in a ditch somewhere, or vaporising you entirely. You suppose it helps as a contingency plan, should they decide to change their mind about their interest in your techniques, but still, you can't help but feel like there's more to it than that. After all, for a so-called prisoner, you're treated shockingly well, and you can't help but find this level of personal freedom rather suspect. 

However, for all of your scrutiny, you can't for the life of you find any strings attached. You've been given no expectations besides 'stay here indefinitely' and 'be relatively unobtrusive', neither of which are difficult tasks given that you are living in a rent-free space and easily the most well-behaved resident of it, respectively. In fact, if you didn't know better, you'd almost assume that you were growing on the other residents. At least, the one you see the most of.

In fact, in the season that's passed since you arrived at this establishment, you and Mr. Akasuna have grown into almost-speaking-terms. You could count your conversations on your fingers, and the words spoken in each of them on one hand, but compared to the dead silence you'd started with, you can't help but consider it almost friendly, seeing as you realise that none of it is precisely necessary.

This has become an important term to you-- necessity. You've noticed that Sasori is not wont to do things that he does not deem necessary, and that while his priorities can be a bit odd at times, for the most part he isn't one to go out of his way for anything, which makes your conversations unique-- he obviously does not HAVE to speak to you at any point, and yet... 

One such in particular catches your eye for this reason.

"Hey, are you a vampire, or something?"

You'd asked it rather abruptly, and mostly as a joke, after coming to the conclusion that, during your (borderline obsessive) observation of his habits, you'd never actually seen him eat or sleep. In fact, you actually aren't certain if he even bothers to breathe, but you dismiss that thought a little more readily, because surely he would have to breathe. He talks, doesn't he? And that's the thing: he talks. In fact, he humours you with an answer.

"No," he says. Blunt, to the point. But it's an answer, a real answer, and not a comment at the absurdity of the question itself.

You nod, seriously, and produce a breath's worth of a contemplative noise, but decline to press the subject. Your eyes scan over the walls of his room, and you find a new topic to comment on. You lift your hand, give a small quirk of your finger at the many, many dolls lining every surface they can fit on, and while he does not so much as twitch, you know he sees it.

"Are these meant to be actual people?" you ask. You do not mean it quite so literally, but nonetheless, he answers.

"Yes."

Again, short and blunt, no elaboration. Your conversations exist, but still remain a bit one-sided.

"How do you get them so realistic?" you ask, again, not expecting anything so literal.

"Good preservatives," he replies.

You blink, realisation raising the hairs on the back of your neck. These are criminals, you knew that, and even legal shinobi are killers by default, and yet you somehow hadn't expected something like that, hadn't had it occur to you that that would be something someone would do...

"Do you like them?" he asks, unexpectedly. You aren't sure how to respond at first, so thrown off are you by your origin that your aesthetic opinion isn't a priority. You settle on a nod, because morbid though they may be, you can't deny that they aren't gorgeous, aren't well made, aren't probably deadly off the shelves. 

It might be your eyes deceiving you, but you swear you catch the barest hint of a smirk.


	4. Cold Coffee

You see a bit less of Sasori for a few days after that. It isn't that you're scared, or anything (well, maybe a little offput), but somehow your comfort level has dropped just a bit. It's not like you're avoiding him, either. Not outright, anyway. Sure, your sudden predisposition to spending time in rooms that aren't his is a bit of a contrast to your previous position of spending most of your time around him (you've never placed why you do this, anyway, actually, aside from him being one of the most mild-mannered people in the household), but you don't think he's exactly noticed. 

That's a lie. He's absolutely noticed. He notices everything. You would be more accurate to say you aren't sure if he actually cares. That one's a bit harder to guess. First of all, you can't imagine why he would, as while he clearly does not hate you, you cannot help but feel that he would not approve of being referred to as your friend. Second of all, he isn't exactly the most expressive of people. Every look on his face besides his default serene stare (his attitude had led you to expect a case of Resting Bitch Face, and yet his resting expression looks more like something out of a painting; not upset, not blank, but some emotion you can't put your finger on) has been subtle, a furrowing of eyebrows, a tiny frown, the ghost of a smirk. Nothing ever reaches his eyes, either, and that just makes him even harder to read.

You, being the antithesis of a social butterfly, are not qualified to attempt.

Instead you try your hand at integrating into the household populace, with mixed results. The residents range from being outright Horrifying (the plant man, or the one with the jail tattoos), to moderately intimidating (the black haired one, the man with the piercings) , to completely disinterested in your existence as a whole (essentially everyone else). Furthermore, you aren't even sure of your position here. You are not a member, nor have you been given any explicit protections to your knowledge. For that matter, everyone here is, frankly, out of your league. Despite your special techniques, you never made it past genin on paper, and you certainly aren't qualified to take down s-ranked criminals should one choose to engage you. While death itself does not bother you, stirring up any kind of ruckus certainly does, as you have never had any kind of taste for violence nor do you want to know what sort of consequences you may receive should you survive (you would really, really rather not end up penned up like a damn animal). This makes starting discussions daunting at best.

However, about midway through your third cup of coffee, you discover that not everyone here is quite so asocial, and find initiative in the form of a familiar blonde boy, who, through some reason or another, seems surprised to see you on your own.

"Hey. Girl," he says, followed up by a short whistle for the sake of grabbing your attention. You are almost comically startled by the development, and thankfully he takes that as acknowledgment (abiet with a chuckle).

"Yeah, you. You aren't with Danna today, yeah?"

The speech pattern grabs your attention, but you don't comment (it isn't like everyone else there, yourself included, doesn't talk somewhat odd) so much as shake your head, setting your mug down on the table.

"Don't look so scared, yeah? You look like you expect me to bite."

You almost do. Despite his covered eye, you can tell that's a wink he's flashing you. It's almost nostalgic, like something you'd read in a book-- you yourself have little experience dealing with these sorts of people. He seems friendly enough, however, and you attempt to appear less guarded. You aren't sure how well it works, you're too busy trying and failing to not put your foot in your mouth.

"Just coffee," you state with a slight, nervous cough (which turns into a few less intentional ones, but you're accustomed to that). He quirks an eyebrow, probably because he didn't ask.

"Danna kick you out, yeah?" he asks. You are stricken with surprise. Is that really his first assumption? You weren't even aware that anyone assumed the two of you were that well-knit. You shake your head again, opening your mouth to answer, but...

"He's throwing a tantrum, yeah. Thought it might be at you."

You are, once again, surprised. He'd seemed fine when you'd left the previous night, but you suppose perhaps you'd misread his mood? You would assume this man knows more about him than you would, anyway-- they've clearly known each other a while. It takes you a moment to remember his name.

"Deidara, was it?"

He gives you a big grin, nodding at that. 'One-and-only', something or other. You think he may be the talkative sort, so you ask him what his 'thing' is. Everyone here appears to have some kind of gimmick, after all. He's more than willing to share. In fact, you manage to lure him into a seat across from you, get him babbling on about his clay, his sculptures, his art. He's very passionate, that much you can tell, but also a bit hard to follow. He's probably one of the few who are as old as they look, since his demeanour leads you to believe he's young. A bit older than you at best, but you don't deign to ask (you think Sasori's aversion to questions has conditioned you a bit). You keep up with the conversation well enough to get the gist but not enough to keep details, and you remain a silent listener up until he makes a comment.

"--everything's better when it's gone in a flash, yeah? A fleeting thing. If you stare at something too long, it goes boring, yeah. Danna doesn't agree with that, though, yeah. Thinks his puppets are the pinnacle of beauty-- takes one to know one, yeah?"

You blink, giving him an odd stare.

"What, you haven't seen them all over the place? You've been in his room enough, yeah."

You shake your head.

"No-- I mean, yes, but. 'Takes one to know one'? You mean like that suit?"

He processes this, then outright laughs, smacking his forehead like he's come to some kind of realisation.

"You haven't noticed? He's one of 'em, yeah. Totally a walking marionette."

A lightbulb goes off in your head. You feel profoundly stupid.

"That would... explain some things, yeah...."

He shrugs. Despite his respectful language and the sense of pride he seems to take when referring to Sasori, he either doesn't feel like pressing the topic or doesn't think it's his place. Maybe both. He proceeds to change the subject, prying into your personalisms instead. This, too, catches you off guard. You suppose you've been spoiled by Sasori's seemingly endless supply of knowledge, so it momentarily strikes you as odd that not everyone in the organisation is privy to your information. 

(You suppose he could just be attempting to socialise with you, but you somehow doubt that he'd ask something he already knew)

As such, you take at least a solid minute to answer his question (about your home village, incidentally), and you probably look certifiably stupid as a result. Jesus. It isn't as if you've been gone long, after all.

"Kirigakure. I lived by myself," you reply, almost absently. That bit wouldn't have been hard to guess, though, even without your forehead protector anywhere in sight. Your trademark jutsu are, after all, essentially water-based. Then again, that's a bit far from anywhere you could guess he'd been, given his Iwa headband.

"Kiri, yeah? You'd look kinda out-of-place there."

You're guessing he means that literally. Admittedly, Kiri isn't the most colourful village (drab at best, honestly-- even the environment is kind of grey, what with the weather), but really, it isn't like you're the only redhead in the country. You figure this is more a conversation piece than an actual accusation, though. You decide to go on that assumption.

"Maybe from an outside perspective, but in practice not so much. Everyone sort of minds their own business there."

You pause.

"Not too different from here, really."

He snorts a bit at that, which tells you that the behaviours of the other members aren't personal so much as standard. You find a slight amount of reassurance in this.

"You're better off that way, yeah. A bad conversation with the wrong guy here might get you killed, yeah," he hesitates on that, kind of funny given his self-affirming speech, but doesn't correct himself. You blink.

"Well, you are criminals," you reply, as if that were an obvious hindrance. This time he seems surprised.

"You really wouldn't be the first one to pick a fight, yeah. What are you, chuunin, jounin...?"

"Genin."

You watch his expressions. First he laughs, like he thinks you're fucking with him. Then he pauses, raising his eyebrows. Slight disbelief. Confusion. You suppose he's never actually seen you in practice, so it's only fair to be a little surprised that you'd have a reputation but no real rank to back it up.

"Yeah?"

"Mm. I've never been well suited to being a shinobi, so..."

You sip your coffee as you trail off, awkward. It's cold by now, incidentally (not to mention awful; coffee is not your niche). You get a twinge of anxiety as you realise the silence has been prolonged longer than a few moments. You believe this may be considered awkward, and choke down the sip, coughing once before quickly asking:

"What about you? Before here, I mean."

And the tension is gone immediately. He is apparently unaccustomed to people asking about himself, and is thusly more than enthusiastic to launch into the misadventures of his past with you while you and your disgusting coffee listen.

You find that it's actually a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.


	5. Red-Handed

"It's considered polite to knock, you know."

You should know better by now than to attempt to sneak anything past your hyper-vigilant not-roommate, and yet by some force of will and misguided hope you'd given an attempt to slip your way into his room unnoticed, under the assumption that perhaps he may be out, or asleep (you wonder if he DOES sleep). It has been, after all, approximately six hours since anyone had seen him come or go, and that is typically a safe time period to assume a room is empty. Then again, it may be a fool's errand to attempt to assign any sort of standard to Mr. Akasuna, especially now. 

"A-ah? I didn't know if you were in."

This isn't technically a lie. Lies feel like a bad move. You aren't particularly good at them, for starters, and secondly you feel that even if you were, Sasori isn't the type to be easily rused. As it is, you're unwilling to risk it. Despite his utterly calm tone, Deidara's comment from the other day has left you with a cold pit of dread in your stomach, because you are unsure what a 'tantrum' entails, exactly, nor are you certain as to whether or not it's your fault or business. You have considered that you may have offended him, after all. You have also considered the awkwardness involved in offending the person you spend the most time around. In a place like this, you've come to the conclusion that alienating one of the two entire people who willingly interact with you is probably not the best decision. Naturally, you've also considered the possibility of him actually not caring, and actually having been upset about something entirely unrelated if at all, but you've chosen to keep your caution strapped down under a tarp, safely out of the wind.

"I can't quite imagine where I would be," he replies. It's smooth. Almost sarcastic? This is new.

"You don't go out?"

You feel it's a safe reply. Guiding the topic. Any tension in the room remains of your own doing; his expression and tone are still serene.

"Mm," he confirms.

His confirmation is followed by silence, which you take as approval. He does not protest to your presence, after all, and makes no move to stop you as you make your way towards the small area of his room that you've informally designated as your own. Your possessions (few and neat though they may be) have remained unmoved and apparently untouched, as far as you can tell, and you actually find yourself a little touched by the fact that he has apparently acknowledged your claim, or at the very least had expected your return. You somehow can't imagine he'd leave things lying about otherwise (you may prove yourself incorrect on this regard, actually). It is about the point that you take your typical perch that he, in another abnormal show of character, perpetuates the conversation of his own accord.

"Do you typically ask questions you don't want answered?" he says. While his tone hasn't changed, the question itself feels like it holds a touch of something bitter to it, but only a hint. You are mildly surprised. Had you been right about offending him?

"Hm? Well, no--"

"Did I frighten you, then?"

He's clearly going for a record when it comes to startling you, and you're beginning to come to a bit of an understanding about his expressiveness. Despite the fact that from an outside perspective, this conversation doesn't seem at all accusatory or even negative, your experience in dealing with him has informed you that something is most definitely off. His conversational habits, primarily. You've definitely offended him.

"Not at all," you reply. No hesitation. Once again, it isn't quite a lie-- you'd been disconcerted at best, taken off guard, but not quite frightened. Which is odd in and of itself-- by definition, Sasori is rather frightening. S-class criminal, toting deadly weapons, likely older and stronger than anything you've ever dealt with and allegedly a walking puppet (horror novel material) to boot (not to mention your literal kidnapper). You've every right to be frightened of him, and yet here you are, honestly more concerned about having offended him than you are about the possibility of being stabbed in your sleep. Or puppified. Whatever it is he does to people he dislikes.

Incidentally, he seems pleased by this answer (or, rather, as pleased as he can seem), as the tension you'd assumed was self-inflicted seems to evaporate somewhat, and you notice he's put down whatever it was he was working on (and subsequently notice that he hasn't actually done any work on it since you entered the room). You manage to not be visibly startled when he stands up, muttering as he passes you to the door.

"Good," he says, "That would be inconvenient."

He pauses, placing something in your hand that you quickly recognise as your pill container.

"You missed a dose, by the way."

He leaves before you can get a retort in, but that statement does stay with you a bit-- a feat, considering you're still reeling from the sudden personality-shock. The fact that he's only just now leaving strikes you as odd, too, but dwelling on it isn't something you have the energy for at the moment. You are, after all, a bit sleep deprived at this point, which you assume isn't helping matters at all. You take your pill, swallowing it with the lump in your throat before laying down in your excuse for a sleeping area.

For better or worse, you've certainly made an impression.


	6. Surprise

Sasori has not returned by the time you've awakened, dressed, eaten, and you quickly become unsure what to do with yourself. You are, after all, rather pressed for hobbies at the moment (you'd never had many to begin with, less now that you're here), and you are admittedly rather unaccustomed to Mr. Akasuna being MIA. For that matter, you found encounter with Deidara, while not unpleasant, socially draining, and the concept of another go does not appeal to you. Going stir crazy is unlike you, honestly, but you realise that it is perhaps your circumstances. While you'd never been one to go out socially, you did typically leave the house at least once a week, often once a day, and it has presumably been months. You think. You haven't been keeping track or anything, and it isn't as if there's a calendar handy, but you feel that this is a safe estimate.

You take this as a suitable excuse when your legs, almost of their own accord, haul the rest of you into a standing position, and you for the first time take the privilege of exploring your and Mr. Akasuna's shared room.

It's strange, yes, that you've never before had much of a look around outside of your immediate territory and the path to the washroom, but in your defense, you've had little opportunity. Or rather, little comfort. Much like Sasori had confirmed, he does not, in fact, leave his room often, or for long, and when he does, he often has you in tow. Thus, you've rarely been left alone to your devices there, and, well. You feel somewhat odd about snooping around with him present.

As it is, you feel that, despite your residency, you are breaking some kind of unspoken rule (granted, all of the rules here are unspoken). You feel a slight rush of anxiety (adrenaline, maybe) as you peruse the puppet-lined space, not daring to actually _touch_ anything (god forbid), but certainly examining each one that catches your eye. Which, admittedly, not many do-- while you found his artwork pretty, you naturally are not a puppet aficionado, and while a few of his puppets have elaborate or even bizarre appearances, a good majority of them seem to resemble simply normal people. It is, ironically, a set of these normal puppets that end up catching your attention. 

The pair are propped up against one of the back walls, separated from the others by a small margin (enough for someone to overlook were they not aware of Sasori's hyper-vigilant, detail-oriented habits) and unique for a few reasons. Their apparent age is one bit-- the couple (you keep thinking of them as such, perhaps due to the way they're placed) look a good deal older than the rest of the puppets (not in physical age, but in time of creation; a bit more worn, a few details missing that his recent puppets would have never missed), but more importantly, familiarity. It takes you a minute. The shape of the eyes. The vermilion hair, a bit warmer than your own. The serene smile. It dawns on you slowly what you're looking at, and you feel your hand rest over your mouth about the same time as you feel the hairs on the back of your neck prickle up.

"Exploring, are we?"

You could just about jump out of your skin. Instead, you re-position your hand to your side where it belongs and turn on your heel. You find yourself face to face (face to collar, really) with Sasori himself (whom you incidentally did not hear come in or approach), and you are relieved to find that his expression is not an angry one.

"A-ah, I was--"

You are interrupted as he places a package in your hands. Mail? No, that isn't possible. More likely, just store wrapping, but why--

"You ought to put that on," he states, in that tone that isn't quite an order but has the effect of one. You set to work untying the twine.

The package contains what appears to be a cloak-- not unlike your own, but heavier, newer, lined with warmer materials, and a rather eye catching shade of burgundy.

Burgundy, of all colours. You're certain he must be in on the joke at this point, but you can't even bring yourself to mind. This does qualify as a gift, after all. You unclasp your usual cloak, let it slide off of your shoulders, and bring the new one around over them. You don't have to check the size, you know it's accurate, but you are surprised to find that the cloak is very warm, very comfortable, and very unexplained. The lattermost of these things comes to fruition in record time.

"Good. Now hurry up," he says, turning back the way he came and, apparently, expecting you to follow. You barely have time to pick up your cloak off the floor before scrambling after him.

"H-hey, where are we going?" you ask, admittedly flustered. You are almost surprised that he bothers to answer.

"We," he says, voice honey-smooth and oddly smug, "Are going into town."

You are equal parts befuddled and terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TOOK ENTIRELY TOO LONG AND IS ENTIRELY TOO SHORT but i assure you the next update is coming very soon.
> 
> on the bright side i did draw a visual reference of akane for those who are curious:  
> http://kanyetrolls.tumblr.com/post/125436992711/


	7. God-Awful Shitty Dread

Your heart and feet race in an attempt to keep up with Sasori's (brisk, but longer-legged) pace. He isn't quite in a hurry, but he isn't slowing down to let you ask questions. You're sure this is intentional, actually, because you are full of them, and he knows you too well. Is it a waste of time? Perhaps, but you wonder why he would get you dressed up just for an impulsive town visit. For that matter, well, you aren't necessarily sure this is Kosher. Are you allowed outside? Is this a coup? Are you overthinking it? Probably. Less because he's a mind reader (he may as well be) and more because he can probably see your not-quite-shaky steps, he pauses to push you by the small of your back, 'pick up the pace' type, and you comply.

It isn't that you're nervous or anything.

Okay, yeah, you're consumed with apprehension, likely because this is your first time leaving the hideout since you'd arrived. It occurs to you that really, what's the worst that can happen to you with a deadly criminal keeping watch (you don't think of him as a bodyguard per se, but you do figure he must be dutybound to at least make sure you make it back in three pieces or less)? 

Truth be told, this is the first time you've even seen the front door, if you can really call it that. As you probably should have expected from a criminal headquarters, it's technically a cave mouth sealed off with a, well, seal. Jutsu activated, apparently. You can't keep up with the 'code', nor do you try. You can't tell if Sasori anticipated this, or is just similarly apathetic. The mouth opens up in a stoney yawn, and you squint your eyes at the first sunlight you've seen in months.

...You'd forgotten how much you'd disliked the sun, actually.

The cloak comes in handy at this point, where Pinnochio himself pulls the hood over your head preemptively, shielding your eyes before you have time to notice the gesture. He's walking before you can thank him, and you have no choice but to swallow the dread and follow. 

~~~  
The town, you find, is much more pleasant than the sun. It's actually more like partly cloudy, with lovely fall weather (you'd catch a chill were not for the extra layer) and a sparse bustle-- not quite a busy commute, but not the stuffy impersonalness you'd grown accustomed to at home. 

...'Home'?

It strikes you that kirigakure doesn't necessarily feel like home to you anymore. You don't long for your house, or even your possessions (not that you owned much of value to begin with), and you oddly don't think you'd go back if given the option. Sure, you were rooming with dangerous folks, and you had no real idea of their motivations or goals, but you've grown a little, dare you say, _fond_ of your routine. The interest of it, the quiet company-- you'd never noticed how nice comfortable silence was before it'd become a near constant companion. And yes, you do have a bit of a lingering fondness for your other constant companion, if nothing else but curiousity (though you doubt he shares any such sentiment).

Granted, this is irrelevant given that you've just cemented your permanent residence (after all, you've seen the exit and the path now). But the realisation is comforting.

"Akane."

You are yoinked out of your path and train of thought by Mr. Akasuna, pulling you bodily to the side to avoid a passing someone (likely an authourity, given the speed, but the idea of ninjas in neutral territory is odd) from bowling you over. Just as well, too; a bruise or cut would be unfortuitous this far from Home Base. As if to echo this, Sasori gives you an almost stern look, and you respond by accordingly paying more attention (and staying much closer in tow). You give the both of you half a road's length of buffer before finally asking.

"What are we doing here?"

You admittedly don't expect much of an answer, but your curiousity outweighs your usual conditioning. Shockingly, he humours you-- really humours, he almost looks amused.

"People-watching," he says, archaically. You follow his eyes to find a better answer, though, in the form of a small group of ninjas. Distinctive, but you can't place their village. The camo pants, fur-- even the village marker is unfamiliar. Perhaps a smaller, independent country? Admittedly, your politics are shoddy.

You do come to realise that the two of you have been shadowing them for much of the trip. Subtly, of course. Sasori has managed to strategically pause in front of stands, carts; 'perusing' but not genuinely looking at wares and keeping enough distance to stay inconspicuous. Similarly, you come to realise why he'd taken you along. Your presence, despite your abnormal appearance, offset his. People would be too busy looking at you to find him a familiar face, or regard him too closely, and on principle a man and a woman look more in-place at a marketplace than a single disinterested man. Smart, logical, just like him-- but you're a bit disappointed. Had you really thought of this as leisure?

He keeps the illusion up well, though. He gives you glances when shopkeepers push their wares (you must be the homemaker in this illusion), feigns contemplation. He even goes the extra mile, as when he catches you caught in the universal discomfort of sales-pushing, he comes to investigate.

He finds you scrutinising a comb held by the shopkeep, forcing a smile as you try to keep up with the man's pitch. Fine quality lacquer, smooth carving. Black body with beautiful sunburst colouration to the delicately carved flowers. Admittedly, you'd be enamoured if you were the type to wear such things, and you absentmindedly touch the back of your hair (you could possibly manage an updo by now). The momentary distraction leaves you struggling to process with pale fingers place the comb in your unoccupied palm.

"Ah, see? Your husband has wonderful taste," the shopkeep's voice rings out. Husband!?

You don't get to protest-- a look in Sasori's eye tells you no, and he calmly places 20 ryo in the peddler's hand before herding you off. 

You make it through a mental whirlwind, then attempt speech:

"You-- I mean, 20-- Wh-- I mean, thank you, but-- H. Husband???"

He seems more amused by the octave your tone goes to by the end of that than anything else, and replies as serenely as he always does.

"People ask less questions if you let them assume what they want. I take it you aren't already married off?"

Was that a joke? It had to be. You're not, and he knows that. You shake your head.

"Good. Kakuzu booked the Inn." One room, no doubt, but sharing a room isn't exactly news to the two of you. Even a single futon wouldn't necessarily be an issue-- again, you still aren't sure that he sleeps. You're more concerned about the fact there's an inn booked.

"Inn? But I didn't pack--"

"I did."

Of course he did.

"Of course you did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND ONCE AGAIN I TAKE FOREVER. I promise this story isn't dead, just slow going. I'm kinda busy a lot, oops. But! Chapter 7 is drafted, and due to be out much sooner. Heading into the first story 'arc' is difficult.


	8. Shock Me Awake

You don't dream often, not anymore, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. You find dreamless nights to be extremely peaceful, restful-- moreso than the flickers of imagination you get when you're on the precipice between sleep and waking. You've slept oddly sound since the change of scenery, you think perhaps due to the hideout being quieter than your village. Tonight, however, is a touch different. You sleep lightly, and you're greeted with many images, all of which are fleeting and certainly meaningless to you. Sounds? Your mind realises the sounds aren't your imagination, and you find yourself flickering awake for what must be the 20th time of the night.

Contrary to your usual protocol-- that is, pretending to still be asleep until you happen to nod off again-- you crack open heavy, bleary eyes and try to blink the sleep away. Things are blurry, as things often are when you don't happen to have your glasses on, and you notice that the room is, well, empty. Certainly, you hadn't expected Sasori to be asleep, exactly, but you hadn't expected him to leave, either-- after all, where would he be at this hour?

You sit up, haphazardly plucking your glasses from the floor next to your futon. As expected, there had only been one, but similarly expected, Sasori had offhanded mentioned having no need of one (adding that you do kick in your sleep). You spot your collective belongings on the table where you'd left them after getting dressed for bed (the man had been nothing if not meticulous, and had somehow fit up to a weeks worth of nonsense in a tiny bag. Possibly more, depending on what he had stored up in those scrolls), abiet in a different position than you recall. You briefly consider letting it be, but your curiousity gets the better of you and you drag yourself to the table, rummaging through the bag and noting the handful of missing scrolls. Apprehension washes over you again, the same dread you'd experienced the day previous.

...A quick look around won't hurt, right?

You stand, armourless, and pull on your sandals and cloak, assuming that whatever it is you're looking for can't possibly be that time consuming, let alone justify putting together a full ensemble-- really, you only bother arming yourself at home for warnings of potential break-ins.

The hotel the two of you are staying at is a small one, slightly dingy, probably what you'd expected. You'd been told the treasurer was a bit stingy, but you don't exactly complain. A group like this must be expensive to run. Then again, Sasori had been rather casual about dropping 20 ryo on what you can only assume was a show.

The doors slide open a bit noisily and you know for a fact the hotel isn't even vaguely soundproof, but you're light-footed by nature and slip down the hall apparently unnoticed. You note a lack of booby traps-- Sasori likely didn't anticipate you leaving the room, let alone making an escape attempt. You note that you fully intend to return, anyway, and wonder if he anticipated that instead. You worry that perhaps you're becoming paranoid, making this mysterious man out to be more omniscient than he actually is. Would that count as paranoia? After all, it isn't as if you recognise him as a threat, per se-- well, of course you realise his capability of harming you, but... Somehow, it doesn't sink in. You don't picture violence, or even associate it with him.

You later find this ironic, but for now you push the thought aside and continue your quest. 

Locating the scorpion man is easier than you'd expected. While you are but a simple genin, you do have some semblance of tracking skills, but more to the point he hasn't exactly covered his tracks. Part of you reasons that he's probably just gone for a walk, but that same anxiety won't let you settle for that. That anxiety, however, also assures you that you shouldn't leave the hotel, either. But your self-preservation instincts are weak, and something draws you out. You wouldn't necessarily call it worry, on principle of worry being an absurd concept in this context. Well. You think it might be, anyway. But you lack another word for it. Point being, you can't be worried for Sasori's safety.

Perhaps your own? You suppose it's entirely possible, if horribly unlikely, you've been abandoned. Abandoned? The word most people would use is 'freed', but you don't find that accurate, because you didn't feel trapped to begin with. Did you perhaps overestimate your worth? Sure, you'd seen the hideout, but your odds of finding it on your own were slim. Maybe, just maybe, you'd overstayed your welcome?

You've never been proven wrong so quickly in your life.

You don't see the kunai coming, or even sense it, until you hear the thunk of it embedding itself into the wood of the building and, seconds later, feel a sting on your cheek. Panic sets in, is internalised, replaced with a cold rush of adrenaline contrasting an oddly burning stinging fiery hot feeling from the wound. You don't focus on that. You turn on your heel, muscle memory forming seals on your hands as you summon forth a wall of genjutsu mist to hide behind, buy time, decide if you're going with fight or flight. Fight is rarely a good idea, but you don't know the area well-- an epiphany hits. The 'shopping' trip. The wandering. You know this street, and you remember the landmarks of where it goes. You bolt down the road you recognise, hoping to vanish in a sea of now-empty carts and stalls.

Some part of you can't imagine such a thing was on purpose, but your residual 'feel' for the city has given you a bit of an advantage, even if it's just in avoiding the enemy-- assuming it is one. You aren't really sure who would be after you, or why, so you reason perhaps that kunai wasn't for you. On this clause, you end up mostly right, but unfortunately this isn't really to your benefit. The moment you have an opportunity to catch your breath, the adrenaline's worn off enough to make your wound more noticeable. Every wound is excruciatingly noticeable to someone like you.

For a normal person, such a scratch would be inconsequential, but you've already soaked through the better part of your shirt from a steady, unclotting flow. Your cheek burns like the dickens, which you attribute to the cold air. Your fingers tingle. You make the split-second decision to seal the wound, effectively limiting any combat options you have-- it'll be far too dangerous to open a second wound. You expertly smudge a bit of emergency wound-paste (you keep some on your person at all times) over the cut and duck deeper into the shadows, staying very still as the paste sets and watching for any potential pursuance.

These are a lot of mistakes to be making in a short time period. This time, you notice the attack in time to not be hit.

The enemy comes from above; not one of the people you'd stalked earlier, but you recognise the clothing enough to assume they're an ally. You analyze them quickly-- taller than you, but not by much. Size indeterminate, but those baggy clothes could be an exploitable hazard. You, again, don't recognise the symbol on the headband, so no guesses as to country, let alone any elemental releases. This time, you are forced to choose fight over flight-- you doubt you'll get away with the same trick twice. You're unarmed and likely outgunned. The enemy goes for their hip pouch, you fire off a familiar set of seals. Tekketsu no Jutsu, your signature move, and conveniently your best bet. With the ammo soaked into your shirt, you'd say you have five shots. You try to make them count.

Number one misses entirely, you're out of practice. Number two is thrown off as you have to quickly lunge backwards to avoid what would have sliced your neck clean. Three hits its mark, upper thigh, inwards, a bit shallow, and you focus on making space between the two of you. You lunge backwards, weaving and desperately avoiding wounds. Your enemy lunges after you. Your enemy seems to alternate between slicing at you with a blade and some sort of attack you can't see but can feel-- your teeth vibrate, your bones rattle, your ears ring. Soundwaves? Your balance is thrown off, and shot four is inadvertently miss-fired into oblivion. Your ass hits gravel. You do not ready a fifth shot. You do not panic. You are running on luck. You hear a footfall behind you.

Luck wins. Your enemy teeters, shivers-- anemia. Blood loss. The wound on their thigh having been torn deep enough to sever the femoral artery only takes a few minutes to secure them to the ground. You doubt they noticed the wound much through their own adrenaline. Your sigh of relief is so deep you're left dizzy. Very dizzy? Oddly dizzy. You look up.

...You're greeted by the welcome and almost exciting site of none other than Akasuna no Sasori, face in a rare expression of... dumbfoundedness? Surprise? You surprised him. This is endlessly funny to you, for some reason. You can't get up to greet him. You can't move your legs, actually.

The surprise fades to a frown, and then to not much at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said, this fic isn't dead lol im just really bad at keeping up with it  
> i promise its drafted out though i fully intend on finishing it and actually have a second fic WIP  
> so uh look out for that


	9. Paradigm

You wake up a special kind of awful. 

Your head is heavy, your mouth is dry, your eyes throb behind your eyelids and you haven't even opened them yet. When you try to shift, you notice that absolutely everything is sore. Not training sore, not bad sleep sore, not even yoga-butt sore; it's a full-out aching in each individual bone of your body, like your very marrow was committing some sort of mutiny. The feeling of it sends bile pooling in your throat, and you move hastily to stand, so much so you don't notice the ragdoll limpness of your joints until you try to stand and fall face-first into the familiar rug surrounding your bed, or rather, the bed you'd commandeered in Sasori's living quarters-- come to think of it, when did you get home?

You struggle to think of this, nose flattened against the ground, but find you don't remember so much as leaving town. The last thing you clearly recall is going down in that alleyway and honestly half expecting to stay down. Honestly, with the pain you're in, you kind of wish that'd been the case. You suppose dreading pain isn't exactly kosher for a ninja, but really, you're a shit-tier ninja anyway, and you're not really ashamed to admit to as much.

"Ah. I suppose you've decided to include the ground in your morning greeting."

You give a noncommittal groan, unwilling to lift your face of your own volition, and within moments you feel a strong, cold arm under your waist, hauling you unceremoniously back into the bed. You know who it is without having to look-- though sarcasm isn't a common modus operandi of his, his particular brand of it is biting in a very specific way. Also, really, who else?

"Good morning, Mr. Akasuna," you finally reply, tone about as dry as your mood. You're ready to participate in the day, you suppose, and you reach for your medicine only to find the table cleared.

"You won't be needing those. The poison is still in your system."

You almost think to argue, until you remember that he's honestly the closest thing to a poison expert in the household, as you so loosely call it, if for no reason than his own penchant for using it. You'd found that out secondhand, during one of Deidara's famous and frequent rambling dialogues-- you've found he doesn't mind your unresponsiveness so much, so long as you are actually listening. Apparently, that's a rare treat.

That aside, you now feel the need to assess the damages-- it's an important habit, and while part of you knows that Sasori is far too thorough to have left anything undone (actually, the thought makes you nervous in a different way, god knows how long you were out; somehow you don't picture the puppeteer playing nurse), another part is a creature of habit, so accustomed to fussing over even the smallest scratch that an encounter with what you can only assume to be a trained assassin definitely qualifies as concerning.

You find your flesh wounds healed over with the characteristic burn of scar tissue that tells you chakra-healing was used and you wonder who he employed to do so (For all of his talents, healing jutsu isn't one of them, which you suspect has something to do with the majority of his body being inorganic). On the other hand, almost camouflaged by your already patchy, wine-stained skintone are strange marks running down the lower half of your legs-- looking closely, you recognise the patterns as your own veins, dyed a mysterious purple-black under your skin. That's. Definitely not good. Yes, that sure isn't normal.

...Actually, somehow you find yourself underwhelmed, even moreso when you see similar marks just barely beginning to trace the capillaries of your fingertips. He must notice you staring, because he begins to speak in this methodical, almost cold (is he angry, you wonder?) tone. 

"An antidote was administered before the toxins could reach any vital organs, but the blend contained a neurotoxin that caused nerve damage, and the toxin seems to be having a half-life effect on your veins," he gives you a glance before continuing.

"...Because of your abnormal blood chemistry, the majority of the components followed gravity rather than your pulse, and the worst of it ended up in your legs instead of anything important."

Oh, so for once your disease was helpful. You'll be sure to make a note of the irony-- wait, what?

"Legs are kind of important," you reply, incredulous. 

"Replaceable," he remarks.

You don't know what to say to that.

\---

Weeks pass, and things get worse as they get better. You find the aching was just an aftereffect of the poison, and it goes away around the same time Sasori starts letting you take your medication again. You halfway wonder if he's spiked it somehow, or if you're just giving him too much credit. Neither would surprise you-- but then again, he's been in another mood of his as of late. Concentrated, focused on his work. Short, sharp answers that tell you pursuing conversation isn't worth the trouble or his temper. At first, this made things unbearable, as you found that even with the pain subsiding you couldn't move far from the bed unassisted. As you work at it, though, you find you can make it anywhere in the hideout that matters if you brace yourself against the nearest walls and budget your steps. 

You find you hate this in a way you've rarely hated anything before-- it's almost exhilarating, actually disliking something. Normally you're jaded at best, apathetic on average. You'd always been resigned to the idea of a shortened lifespan, but a constant risk of bleeding out was a different can of worms entirely from being physically incapable of getting where you wanted when you wanted. First of all, it was a relative career-killer for a shinobi, not that you'd valued your career terribly, but secondly? Well, you really just valued your independence. You specifically avoided people for so long to maintain this, avoid any bizarre sense of pity, and keep some semblance of dignity-- as much as you could while maintaining the prospect of death-by-papercut being a potential eulogy. 

This was just degrading, and being in a building filled with criminals that could've whooped your ass sideways on your best days only served to enhance that opinion. You're kicking your own ass sideways for being stupid enough to get poked with something poisonous in the first place. 

Slowly, Sasori's statement-- an offer, you realise, becomes more and more appealing. Before, you'd found the prospect of modification to be completely horrifying, frankly-- cool, yes, but _horrifying_ \-- but now, with your body committing literal mutiny? You're starting to see the value of interchangeable limbs.

...Maybe just the limbs?

You can't shake the thought. It gnaws at you, the seed planted in your head sprouting only halfway to your own will. Did he plan this? No, even for him, that's too much; if he'd really wanted to play guinea pig with you, he wouldn't be making you ask for it. 

...Would he?

That thought, too, bugs you in a different way-- you're starting to wonder if your preoccupation with Mr. Akasuna, puppet-pants, Pinnochio his fucking self is something short of healthy, per se, and you know for a fact that the idea, just the notion he'd go to so much trouble just to do...whatever the hell his weird-cool-creepy occupation entailed, to you, specifically fills you with. Flattery? Some kind of strange satisfaction? Yes, some part of you kind of wonders if he's as preoccupied with you as you are with him, and yet, despite his hypervigilent knowledge of your everything from shoe size to medical history to the locations of your moles and apparently your taste in hair accessories (which, incidentally, you'd taken very well to wearing often, despite your hair length being just a bit unsuitable), you somehow found it completely inconceivable that you could possibly hold any personal value to him. As a person. You. The strangely willing prisoner that felt more like a roommate really and-- Oh, God, is this what Stockholm feels like?

"--and that's why I don't have fingerprints, yeah. Hey, are you still listening?"

You haven't heard a damn thing Deidara's said for perhaps the past hour. This is getting to you. Fine, yes, you're curious, you have to know for sure.

You give Deidara a nod but an apology, and tell him he'll have to tell you more about his missing fingerprints at a later date. 

\---

Sasori doesn't look up when you enter the room, but he does notice that you're not just returning from your usual outings. You know he knows something's amiss, because he's put his work down-- you no longer hear the clicking scraping noises of his tools against the not quite wood, not quite ceremic material of his art.

"If you have something to say, say it. I'm not a patient man."

You know he isn't, and that makes it worse. You're a half second from losing your nerve altogether and you still haven't quite parsed what it is you mean to say. Somehow the rush motivates you to skip trying to make it palatable and just spit the damn thing out.

"How does one become a puppet?" you ask, a distinct crack teetering at the end of your voice.

He's caught off guard by your question-- not because of what was asked, but because it's you that's asking. The following silence is a fly in your ear. The anticipation is killing you; really, you think you're about ready to just pop an aneurysm and be done with it.

"...Do you really want to know?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR THIS FIC ISNT DEAD I'VE JUST BEEN BUSY AND LAZY AND,,, STUFF,, AND honestly drafting fics is all fun and games until you realise you have no idea how to write a transition chapter.
> 
> but!!! i appreciate the love and support this fic has gotten-- honestly when i wrote it i expected it to be self indulgent, but it's gotten surprisingly popular. this kind of drives me to actually finish it, lol-- i know i'd be disappointing people if i left it undone.
> 
> also lol ive been... actually drafting a second series. and a third. god, i'm awful at finishing things before starting new projects. look out for them, though! the second one is another naruto fic, and might be about as long as this one will be (i'm still deciding on a cut-off; 13-20 is looking good, but ideally i'd like to settle in at 15), and the third is a pokemon minific in 5 parts.
> 
> ANYWAYS i know where i'm going from here so!! next one will hopefully be out sometime this month, if i'm not too busy on vacation.


	10. Cumbersome and Heavy

The process, he says, is simple, and yet for some reason or another you end up needing a sick bucket by the end of it. Honestly, you can't tell if it's the last of the poison leaving your system, or just the gruesome value of it all. You should be used to it, you suppose, but you've never SEEN him make one, and in retrospect, you're a little disturbed that you'd lived with such things for so long. And yet, at the same time, the way he does it makes it even more impressive. 

The first step is actually easy-- you don't even need to be sedated. Your legs are wrapped gently in a special kind of gauze, which is apparently important, because the look on his face... He's more focused than you've ever seen him, yes, even while working on his other projects. You wonder when the last time he did this on a human was. If he's ever done it on a living person. You assume the firey excitement-- something foreign to his stoic, dead eyes-- on his face means it's been some time, if at all. Part of you wonders if he's been wanting to do this since you got here, if that's why he knew all your measurements by heart, and that's why he keeps such a close eye on you. This worries you for only moments, actually.

He's so delicate handling your legs that you can't even imagine malicious intent-- you almost forget that the next step involves removing them entirely. He says that typically that process takes him weeks, and he's had to modify his methods for you. You almost want to ask if he's done that before, too, but part of you doesn't really want to know, either. You already kind of wish you didn't know quite a few things-- whoever said knowledge is power is a tool.

He double, then triple checks that your feet are securely wrapped before he moves up your shins, lips moving in odd mental notes that you can't quite catch fast enough. He doesn't write anything down, you've noticed. Photographic memory. You sincerely doubt he's ever forgotten a thing in his life, he's such a perfectionist. The material is rougher than you'd like, now that you can really feel it on your skin. He pays extra attention to your knees, and pauses. You squirm, just a bit. You're not exactly used to having people this close, let alone, you know, alarmingly handsome serial killers (and GRAVE ROBBERS, apparently) sticking their shitty handsome heads dangerously close to your weird winestained thighs. 

Dear god, you HOPE he can't actually read your mind.

If he can, he doesn't give any indication, or doesn't care. Instead, he pauses, then brushes his fingertips up your thigh, near the top where you still have all your nerves. You squeak, almost scream, from the surprise of it, and thank whatever entity you can think of that you can't visibly blush.

"...I was going to ask how high you wanted me to cut," he says, bluntly. Something in his tone isn't quite amusement, but you can hear a smirk where you don't see it, and that just cements your mortification. That said, you have no idea how to respond to the question, from a practical standpoint. Any attachment you have to your legs you've already come to terms with, so parsing inches seems somehow moot, like trying to be sentimental over something you only cared about on an odd sense of principle. 

"Where ever is easiest, I guess."

He actually seems kind of pleased with this mindset, and it catches you very off-guard when he just sort of knocks you down-- rather, he hooks his fingers behind your knee and yanks you forward, leaving you to fall on your back on the cot. Again, mortified-- you have no idea how he's being so professional about this. He finishes wrapping the gauze all the way to the hip joint, and you ASSUME he knows what he's doing. You actually have zero fucking clue what to expect at this point. 

You watch him make a short series of hand signals, and feel the gauze stiffen around your legs until it almost feels like stone. 

From there, he brings forth a needle, and you start to question the logistics of USING a skin-piercing device on your iffy physiology before remembering he wholeheartedly intends to hack your limbs off. Very moot, surely he knows what he's doing-- you wonder at what point you started thinking of this man as trustworthy, so much so you've gotten this deep into veritable hell. 

Maybe you're just a little fucked up, you think.

The needle pricks you somewhere near your hip.

Ha, he touched my butt, you think.

\---

The next step, he had said, typically involved desiccation of the flesh. Bone would be ground to form a basis for the resin, and iron would be separated from the blood and used to reinforce the material. Of course, he would modify this for you-- he doesn't have an entire body's worth of blood to work with, and ideally would have as little as possible. He also would not have weeks to cure the flesh in sunlight, but that could be achieved with certain jutsu, apparently. Technically, he said, your new legs would still be _your_ legs, just reformed, 'improved'. 

He'd sounded so, well, not necessarily excited or enthused, but so pleased with the situation you almost gotten swept up in it, and forgotten exactly how disgusting and gruesome this sounded. 

Yes, he explained it had a purpose. Besides being Gross, apparently the material containing actual body parts as such not only increased chakra flow but preserved characteristics from the original body, such as jutsu and even kekkei genkai. Not that you had anything so unique to justify this, at least not in your opinion, but it would make your life easier, especially given that you would have to expend chakra to move them.

With practice, he'd noted, you ought to be able to move them unconsciously. He had done as much, after all, and though his body, as he had mentioned, was almost completely artificial, he too hard started bit by bit. The implication that this might not be the stopping point for you is concerning, and you actually DO mention this, but he doesn't seem concerned.

"Perhaps you'll develop a taste for it."

\---

You have no idea how long you've been out by the time you wake up.

You aren't sore, at all. Actually, all the soreness you'd been feeling in your poisoned flesh had evaporated entirely, replaced by smooth nothingness. No pain, no strange fabric, nothing. It'd be disconcerting if it wasn't so dang relieving-- you'd fully expected some kind of horrific post-operational agony. 

You are, however, tired; still lethargic from the sedatives in your system. You really couldn't ask what he'd used, let alone where he got it, though you are curious if it's homebrew or something off the black market. You do wonder, at times, where the group in general gets all its supplies inconspicuously. But that's a question for a different day-- perhaps you'll ask Deidara. You do seem to be in a...shockingly good mood. That's noticeable, and when it occurs to you, you actually reel a bit. You're very accustomed to your own stoicism, the difference is very jarring. Maybe it's the drugs?

You pull yourself into a sitting position, and find yourself a little surprised that it isn't as difficult as you're used to. While your new legs are definitely heavier than the old ones, they're also not held down by the strange lethargic distributions you'd been left with, or the pain. You feel paradoxically lighter, and finally, you do what you'd been avoiding this whole time. You pull aside the blankets, and you look.

Sasori's work is nothing if not _immaculate_. You can't find a single detail astray, a single measurement off or out of place. They hardly even look _fake_ \-- you could be fooled entirely were not for the thin lines running over the tops of your thighs (you genuinely can't tell where your flesh ends and the false material begins), under your knees and over your ankles, matching the ones you've seen on Sasori's wrists. You reach down, tracing your fingertips over the material, and find it surprisingly soft, almost like real skin. There's give, though not quite as much as your own flesh, and you can feel joint mechanisms hidden under whatever the hell it is the outer coating is made of in the knee. And, well. You wont admit it, but best of all...

It's your skin. _Your_ skin, off-colour strange markings and wine stain patterns and all, down to the most minute _detail_. You genuinely can't see a single seam or discrepancy-- did he really take the time to memorise every mark and colour on your legs? You couldn't be paid to admit it, but something about that makes your heart flutter, swell, almost stop. Yes, perhaps it was a silly thing to be so worked up over, but... Your markings were part of who you were, or so you'd always thought. You'd never been shy about them or seen reason for it. You just had never expected anyone else to see them that way.

You're wiping water (dust, you insist!) from your eyes when you notice that you are not alone. 

"...I thought they were rather beautiful, myself," he says, expression unreadable.

Breathless, you only just manage to nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN I PROMISED A QUICKER UPDATE THIS TIME AND DAMNED IF I DIDNT INTEND TO _PROVIDE_
> 
> IM GOIN TO BED


	11. Looking Like Stonehenge

You are off balance in a different way, now. See, for all the things you learned in the academy, puppeteering wasn't one of them. It's a specialist class, it's something that needs practice, and this crash course really isn't doing it for you. Sasori is standing by, supervising, and you genuinely can't tell if he's irritated or amused by your pathetic efforts. Despite the soft mat the two of you set up, your nose still feels seconds away from bleeding with how many times you've fallen face first downwards, and you're pretty sure your ass is bruised enough to reject even the softest chair. 

Realistically? It could be worse.

You managed forming strings easily enough (Sasori informed you that internal control is easier, but the fundamentals were the best place to start), and even attaching them wasn't terribly difficult, but you'd really hit your weak point figuring out how to actually exert _control_. You originally thought it would be like a real string marionette, all tension and push and pull, but realistically it has a lot more to do with chakra focus and intent. You suppose that makes sense, given how masters can allegedly control hundreds at once. You've just barely managed to figure out how to stay standing without your knees buckling under your weight. God, was learning to walk this hard the first time around? 

Your infant self will never be able to answer that question, but after you manage to put one foot in front of the other (a true milestone) before falling directly on your ass, you give. You've been at this all morning, and you're exhausted. You crave a cup of coffee, a nap, and maybe an early death. Sasori gives you no such mercy.

"Try again," he insists, voice steady and just the barest hint impatient. Your throat releases something akin to a groan as you lift your knees (manually) and make several halfhearted attempts to support your weight. In your focus, you become surprised and elated for a moment as the weight and difficulty lifts and you, yourself, are weightlessly brought to your feet.

Then, naturally, you notice the glowing strings on Sasori's fingertips, and your enthusiasm dies on arrival.

"I can figure it out," you huff, with that uncharacteristic sting of emotion you've been carrying around since you'd gotten your new legs. He blinks, slowly, and your legs walk towards him of their own volition.

"I'm bored. Let's try a different approach,"

You're not sure what he means by that, and you're struck completely off guard when his hands scoop up yours, his fingertips pressing into the backs of your hands. You notice a warmth in each finger, ever so slightly different from each other. You don't understand what this means, of course, until he elaborates.

"I'll lead, you follow," he says, and without warning, the two of you are set spinning. Slow, methodical, not quite a waltz but something else entirely. He moves you more gracefully than you'd ever moved on your own, and slowly you get the idea-- certain fingers warming moreso for certain movements, and so on, and so fourth, and you mimic the chakra focus with your own fingers, wrapped delicately around his thumb. He smiles-- actually _smiles_ \-- and your shoddy little heart swells with something like pride.

"Good," he praises. You repeat the same circle of steps twice more before he releases one of your hands and places his own on your waist, more suitable for what the two of you are doing. Without his lead, you keep up the pattern, just a few stumbles off from his butter smooth control. You're almost smiling-- it's kind of an elating, breathless feeling, how easy it is when he's teaching you. More breathtaking still, the way the two of you are just... floating about the room like this. You've never done this-- danced, or really, had any kind of leisurely fun with someone. You never learned, either, and you certainly didn't expect to be taught how by a wanted terrorist.

"Remember the steps," he murmurs in your ear, and his other hand rests on your shoulder. You stumble again, gripping the front of his shirt for balance for just a moment before you remember, right, left, the general focus pattern, and you're back in sync again. Except, you realise, it's all you now-- his hands are only warm with the residual heat of your own, leeching back into his characteristic coldness. You're lost in it, repeating, but no longer as tired as you were earlier. You don't suppose false limbs can feel fatigue, either, and given the circumstances, you lose track of how much time passes before he speaks again.

"Brace. Improvise."

It's a command, not a request. You only have a moment to process it before he breaks the pattern, lifts your arm-- you remember what focus controls what joint just in time to stay standing-- and _spins_ you, clean and graceful, then brings you into a low dip. That's trust you didn't realise you had, alarming amounts of trust, and your eyes go just a bit wide meeting his dull, just barely amused ones.

"...Startled, are we," he chuckles. 

You don't think you've ever seen him this amused in your life, but the kicker is, for once? He's wrong. You're not started, you're... just, breathless, again, for some reason you can't fathom. Not because of your legs, or because of the exercise, or because of the spent chakra, though you could pass it off as such. No, the real problem has a lot to do with Mr. Akasuna's face, and especially its proximity to your own.

You're vexed all the way back to standing upright, and he releases your waist, leaving you standing half zoned-out in the middle of the room, a polite 30cm from him.

"You learn quickly, given the right motivation. Good. We can focus on internal mechanisms next time."

Mechanisms? God, did he slip tricks up your sleeve?

Actually, that thought doesn't surprise you at all. You swear you catch a smirk out of the corner of your eye as you give your calves a glance over. But after that, he leaves you there, likely to retreat back to his room and his work and leave you to your daily routine. You make sure he's out of eyeshot before you lean against the wall, trying to brace yourself as your focus wavers. The smile he had on still lingers in your mind, and your heart gives a flutter you can't contribute to your medication.

This is a serious problem, you surmise. You'll have to seek professional help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annnnd another late update. i keep forgetting to do these! i do promise i'll finish it, though-- after all, i've got one hell of an ending waiting.


	12. The Distance Isn't Fair To Cross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up-- I decided to start this chapter off from Deidara's perspective, before switching back to Akane's. Sorry if the difference is jarring!

Contrary to popular belief, Deidara isn't exactly what one would call an expert, but he's more than smug to be thought of as such (and when he thinks about it, he's probably the most socialised member of this walking freakshow calling itself an organisation). Akane, however, is the last person who he thought he'd find coming to him for advice. Hidan, maybe, if he could swallow his pride without choking on it, or maybe Kisame if he weren't twice his age (despite the man's appearance, Deidara had unanimously declared him the most human-acting member), but not Akane.

Akane, to him, is outclassed in stoicism only by Sasori himself, at least amoungst the members Deidara classified as still having some semblance of a soul. He could count the number of significant expressions she'd shown him since her arrival on one hand, and though speaking to her so regularly (as one of the only people willing to actually listen to him on a regular basis, much to his surprise and swell of ego) had taught him that she was neither truly emotionless nor the murderous freak he'd assumed at first glance, the idea of the bloodstained woman not only distraught but seeking advice from him was a strange pill to swallow. 

"I have a problem," she'd said, and his initial response was naturally a jab, just the suggestion that there was a problem she had that his Danna couldn't fix, but the ghost of a frown she threw back heavily suggested Sasori _was_ the problem, and that set him in a rare sense of quiet, while she explained her situation.

Her 'situation', as it turns out, strikes him as ridiculous-- he genuinely thinks she's fucking with him at first. Surely she can't be _that_ oblivious. But no, she's spewing nonsense, asking if it's a social thing or if she should talk to someone about updating her medications (he's not sure what the hell it is she takes or why, truthfully, just that it'd been a pain to pick up prior to her own kidnapping) as if he could tell either way, then starts explaining her 'symptoms', while he nods sagely as if he has any fresh clue about medical care. Surprisingly, he does know exactly what she's talking about, because it has nothing to do with medical care, and again, he can't believe she's sincerely this dumb. But no, the look on her face is serious as ever-- not even the deadpan strange half-smirk when she tries to crack a joke, but really serious-- and it dawns on him that maybe she really is that sheltered. After all, it'd only been after speaking at length that he'd concluded she was about as normal as anyone in this household could get (god, he hated calling it that), and backpedaling that assumption just a bit wasn't hard.

"Are you serious? Really, serious, yeah?"

She gives him a befuddled look, and Deidara concludes that she's 100% serious, and also stupid. Very stupid. 

"Fine, fine. Liking someone isn't that big of a deal, yeah? You're just getting flustered. Don't overthink it so much--" he pauses, something dawning on him.

"--Hey, wait, the two of you aren't... y'know, yeah?"

She doesn't know, no, and it takes a few moderately inappropriate hand gestures on his part before her eyes narrow then widen in realisation, and she shakes her head hard enough Deidara worries it might pop clean off.

"No! I mean, of course not? He's busy with his work, I just, happen to be in the same room, is all. You know. Kidnapping? Remember?" her voice comes out with the slightest crack to it, and he know's he's gotten her goat as far as embarrassment goes. He'd be teasing her mercilessly over it if it weren't so... not sad, but kind of embarrassing. 

"Usually prisoners get tossed in the brig, or disposed of, or recruited, yeah. I'm the newest in a while, but you're the first one I've seen get none of the above," Deidara confesses. He himself had been the lattermost case, and admittedly he'd at first thought she was, too, until she'd revealed that she wasn't even a particularly high ranking ninja, let alone an asset. From there, he thought maybe Sasori had intended to make one of his creepy puppets out of her and solve the stalemate issue, but lo and behold here she is, untouched save for legs she's figured out how to use in short order.

"I didn't ask for special treatment, he just sort of had everything set up, and I just. Kinda went with it?"

Deidara pauses again, all at once at odds with how goddamn _weird_ everyone here is. For a pyromaniac, he really does feel like the only sane one here more often than not.

"You know how fucked up that sounds, right?" he replies, bluntly.

It takes Akane a moment to gather her thoughts, and she just. Shrugs. Halfhearted shrugging.

"It's not like I have much to miss," she says. Deidara thinks it's a little sadder that she doesn't sound upset about that than if she had. Uncomfortable, he changes back to the original topic.

"I'm just saying. There must be something about you he likes, or you wouldn't be getting special treatment, yeah. Just be honest, mm. The man hates liars."

Akane mulls that over for a bit, then nods, something like conviction on her face. She stands, stumbles just a bit on the (creepily) accurate new legs of hers, and sets off to god-knows-where. Deidara shakes his head, taking a sip of his drink.

Freaks.

\---

It takes you about 5 minutes to lose your nerve, just long enough for you to get from the sitting area to your and Sasori's shared doorway. This room being technically yours, too, you wonder why you're suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety by the idea of opening the door. Deidara's words are getting to you, well-intentioned though they might have been-- you'd gotten too comfortable calling yourself a resident when the truth was you were a bizarrely well treated... prisoner? You guess? Deidara said your thoughts on that were weird, too, and that much you could concede. The problem was, you didn't... _feel_ like one. You hadn't felt any semblance of trapped since you'd figured out you weren't waiting to be murdered. Your vibe was thoroughly one of a person who had no desire to leave rather than couldn't. The reiteration that you were technically a hostage was a jarring one, not one you're comfortable with, and leaves questions as to Sasori's motivations.

...Why _was_ he keeping you so close at hand, anyway? You'd grown to trust the man so implicitly that it hadn't occurred to you to question what the hell it was that motivated him. He didn't treat you like a pet, and you sure as hell weren't a slave. If he'd wanted to make you into a doll or puppet, he had any opportunity to do so, and your sense of agency didn't feel restricted. No, no matter how many times you thought it over, there wasn't an ulterior motive that made sense. You weren't useful or being used in any way you could ponder, and Sasori was far too impatient a man to be plotting some kind of slow-burn destruction on your part. 

For some reason, Akasuna no Sasori, wanted criminal, had seen you and chosen to treat you kindly. You, who had never been treated anything better than neutral by your peers, couldn't for the life of you fathom why.

In the end, he turns out to have the agency you lack, and he eventually opens the door to you (you suspect he must have sensed your presence long ago) and gives you a somewhat puzzled look, as if he were trying to discern a haircut or something to the sort. When he asks what you were doing, you offhandedly explain that you were lost in thought (Deidara's comment on liars, too, had not been lost on you) and scurry into the room in short order. If he notices your odd behaviour, which you're sure he does, he doesn't choose to comment, and that's just fine by you. You're quick to change down to your sleeping garments the moment you're behind the thin curtain (modesty, you'd insisted, though he hadn't seemed to understand what you meant) separating your designated space from his when you so deigned they needed to be separated. Now is such a time, but you're a transparent person, and as your body hits the cool sheets, you end up peeping through the tiny sliver of curtain that just so conveniently happens to land over his workstation.

You watch as his shadow of a form lingers at the door for a moment, perhaps in confusion (does he even get confused?), before he silently sits back at his desk area, picking up what looks like some kind of arm and prodding at it with tools you don't even begin to understand the function of. You watch him like this for minutes ticking into hours, as his deft movements turn the limb from outdated machinery to a clean, smoothly functioning thing you couldn't see someone minding having on their own arm were they lacking for one.

...You're getting uncharacteristically starry-eyed, all engrossed in a hobby you don't understand just because it's him doing it, and god do you ever feel like a creep. Peeping through a curtain you yourself put up to watch teal-painted fingernails trace details until your vision inevitably gets bored of the work and gets a little more interested in his face, his expressions (when he thinks you aren't looking, he occasionally scrunches his eyebrows up in distaste, mild frustration, or carries the ghost of a satisfied smile) natural on a face you wouldn't believe were fake if he hadn't told you. You lose track of how long you're (creepily) staring, before he pauses, his tinkering, and you watch him open his mouth to speak but don't quite process the action until his voice startles you out of your trance.

(Oh, you definitely have it _bad_ )

"Akane, have you taken your medication."

It's not a question so much as a scolding, and you nearly fall out of bed scrambling for your pill bottle. You miss the opportunity to see a smirk on his face at your sputtering, but what you don't know wont hurt you. You're indignant as you swallow your medical sustenance (your dosage changed just slightly to account for your newly downsized natural body) and cocoon yourself under your blankets in sheer mortification.

"Goodnight, Akane," he says, just a bit smug.

You wish you could manage a reply beyond the halfhearted grunt you give, but in the past hours of staring, you've realised two things.

Firstly, Deidara is right, you're smitten, and he's wrong, you should worry about it.  
Secondly, Sasori, with his perfect features and smooth voice, is like a distant star, or a rock at the bottom of the sea; at least thirty thousand leagues away from yours, and you just don't know if that's a distance you can bring yourself to reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, this work FINALLY has a set amount of chapters. I've been deliberating for ages how to shove everything together (originally, I wanted 15, but it's Just Not Realistic) and I think I'm actually happy with it now. Of course, I keep saying that, so it probably sounds like an empty promise now. But!! With a 'x of 20' label on the chapters, I feel like I have both a set goal, and a commitment to finish this monster I've made. That said, I'm also working on some art to accompany this, as well, so look out for that.


	13. Alight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally two chapters, but i thought they were too short and a bit more cohesive together so i smushed them together to advance the plot

The morning air smells alarmingly fresh-- the smell of rain last night struck through and enhanced by the ever so slight chill of pre-dawn. The rocks below you are slightly damp, but not enough to bother you. It's more like cooling off. The cave-like structure the lot of you occupy is never too hot, or too cold, for the first time since your arrival it's begun to feel... oppressive somehow. The nighttime affair of surreptitiously watching Sasori forgo sleep in favour of work lost it's appeal and turned sour in record time, leaving you feeling drained and vaguely unsatisfied, like reading a bad novel. A little...guilty, too, like you've done something reprehensible somehow. As fucking ridiculous as that sounds in comparison to the people you share living space with, it's true-- creepily staring at someone for hours on end just isn't becoming. 

Admittedly, you're kind of missing your apathy. General disinterest in other people or activities isn't-- wasn't-- necessarily a happy thing, but it wasn't bad, either. It was a lifestyle. You woke up, you ate your breakfast, you paid your rent, and you _survived_ , and ultimately it wasn't difficult.

Emotions? Are difficult. Sasori is difficult. You find that you are also difficult, when forced to deal with yourself for more than a few moments at a time. Your lack of socialisation makes it worse. You imagine, at times like these, a person such as yourself would seek the advice and encouragement of a dear friend, or begin formulating some kind of elaborate plot to curry favour. Instead, you dwell on Deidara's words, and begin to ask yourself questions. Like a cliche in a bad romance, you end up feeling introspective as the sunrise begins staining the flat, rocky plains a bright vermilion. 

_'Do you like Sasori?'_

It sounds like something straight out of grade school. You think about it. Sasori is complex-- impatient, perceptive, charming and charismatic in spite of a slightly arrogant interior. He's intelligent. He's handsome. He's talented. 

_'But do you **like** him'_

What does it mean, to 'like' someone?

You like things, sure. You like the smell of morning coffee. You like the sound rain makes against the roof of the cave system. You like the delicate clacking noises the puppets make when they're being moved or tinkered with. You like the passionate way Deidara babbles about his art and you like the noncommittal way no one here obligates you to speak to them, nor resents you for not doing so. You like comfortable silence. 

Most of the things you like are, not coincidentally, things facilitated by living here. You have to think harder.

Truthfully, you like the way you're... not 'worried' over, but cared for. You like being reminded to take your medication at night, and you like how with the change of season, you always find a small increase in your selection of clothing options. You kind of like knowing who put those options there. 

You like knowing that a man who doesn't like anyone fusses over you. An arrogant, naturally pretty man found something beautiful in your disfigurements, so much so that he would carefully imitate them. A man who doesn't like to parse words making time to speak with you when you ask. You like the way his burnt-cinnamon eyes look a little brighter when you ask him about his projects. 

You don't know much about 'liking' people, but yes, you think you do like Sasori, in some way or another. To some extent, you wonder if it would be nice to be 'liked', as well.

Lost in thought, you almost think it's your imagination when you feel cold fingertips grazing your cheek. Your scream is silenced before it can gain any traction by the hand (soft as any, but icier than the morning air) cementing itself over your mouth.

"Calm. I'm only taking you back inside."

The honey-smooth, familiar voice calms you, and you nod.

\---

"Do you understand how foolish this is?"

He's irritated with you. Not visibly, no, but you can tell in his harsh gaze and the stinging cold in his tone. In retrospect, it's obvious why. You'd never confirmed or denied your permissions, whether or not coming and going was appropriate, but honestly assuming it wasn't would've been the obvious choice. It's true, in how you're treated, you often forget your true status here-- having you turn up missing in the wee hours of the morning must have looked incriminating, and you wonder if your easy cooperation is the real reason you're getting a scolding and not something worse.

"The area is filled with traps designed to catch and kill intruders. Entering through the door requires a specific jutsu-- one you haven't been taught. The area is often patrolled--"

He stops, notices you looking down. A cold finger cups your chin, tilts your face up, and looks you directly in the eyes.

"Akane. Had anyone else seen you, you would be dead. Do you understand?"

It doesn't sink in. Part of you can't process that-- that you could've been killed on the spot, been assumed to have turned traitor and 'escaped' by the other members, or worse, spotted by patrol nin and dispatched as the criminal you look like (probably are by this point). The blank look on your face plucks at something in his temper, and his voice carries uncharacteristic emotion. Frustration, not quite anger, exasperation. His grip on your chin doesn't tighten, but does quiver. You feel like all the air has been forcibly removed from your lungs.

"Akane. You are not _allowed_ to die. That's not," he pauses-- you'd swear for breath, if that were necessary-- and evens his voice, "Acceptable. It's unacceptable."

You blink, in a complete daze, and he seems to misinterpret this. Suddenly, your chin is released, and he's looking over the rest of you, as if examining you for damage. You realise a moment later that's exactly what he's doing, but your disbelief, rather, your belief that such a thing is _absurd_ stops you from processing it. You have cold hands gently lifting your arms, your legs, looking over your head for visible signs of injury. He mulls this over, then goes back to seeming exasperated, maybe a bit confused, even.

"Why are you so quiet, suddenly?"

Sasori doesn't ask questions. He knows things. This is an anomaly. 

"...No one has ever cared about my life before."

You have him shocked, and you can't even appreciate it. Something seems to dawn on him, and his expression changes into something akin to a smile.

"...You don't understand. I see. I thought I'd been very clear,"

Your confusion is palpable.

"Clear about what?"

"You're very careless with your life, I decided to take care of it instead. I imagined you wouldn't mind,"

This isn't sinking in. He touches the side of your head, where you've neatly done your hair up with that sunburst comb.

"...You do remember, don't you?"

You do. You know exactly what he's talking about, now that he's spelled it out neatly for you, like an idiot. That's why he looks so smug. Your pulse is dangerously high. This man is telling you not to die, then playing hell on your blood pressure. You can almost feel how stupid you must look.

"Breathe, or I'll have to do it for you."

You give a shakey nod. Blink. Take a deep breath. If you weren't already sitting down, you might be dizzy. His hand traces over the top of your hair, delicate, moreso than even his puppets, as he undoes your hair, smooths it out. It'd be soothing if he wasn't already raising your blood pressure.

"Go back to sleep," he orders. You aren't sure if it's your volition or his that leads you from sitting to laying on your bed, but you don't care much, either. Part of you is giddy, another part terrified, another confused. You are, as it turns out, 'liked'. You just aren't sure how you feel about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEEHAW WE DID IT KIDS WE MADE IT  
> now i can get into that gay emotional fuck shit ive been itching to write 
> 
> also leave me your thoughts in the comments, i'm kind of trying to decide between some ending ideas and might sort of tie in what my readers are thinking/wanting with whats drafted out


End file.
